Wind in the Meadow
by Shauna1
Summary: The story of the founder of Rohan.


Wind in the Meadow Wind in the Meadow   
Shauna (wind3213@hotmail.com) 

  
Lament for Eorl the Young

_ Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?  
Where is the spring and the harvest and the corn growing?  
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;  
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.  
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,  
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?  
_

-- J. R. R. Tolkien 

_______________ 

It was the realm of the Eotheod, and the year was 2485. 

To the Northwest was Mount Gundhabar, where the dwarves had long ago awakened, a secretive people who come not into this story. Down from Gundhabar were the Misty Mountains, and there the enemy dwelt by peaks and in caves, waylaying those who dared to cross. In later days would come great grief to the elves who traveled from the Last Homely House to fair Lothlorien. Many of the evil creatures who plagued the Misty Mountains were refugees from the Witch-king's old land in the West, yet one tiny creature made his way from the south, a precious treasure on his finger. 

To the east was the forest once known as the Greatwood, where Thranduil's people dwelt. To it's darkest depths the Necromancer had returned after the Watchful Peace; the Necromancer, Sauron, who had been driven from his place in Dol Guldor by the Istari Gandalf. Foul creatures then spread from the Mirkwood in all directions: they harried the borders of Gondor, fortified the Easterlings of Rhovianon, and drove Thranduil northward. 

In the South Boromir ruled as Steward in Gondor, though a morgul-wound festered and made him weak with pain, and soon after Denethor's death his son would recieve the Gift of Eru. Cirion tended to his dying father, learning all he could of the ways of war. 

And there between the flowing waters of the Langwell and the Greylin, lived the Eotheod, who had once been the Men of Rhovianon and would one day be the Men of Rohan. And yet, this day in 2585, belonged not to the warriors of the battlefields, but to a queen who fought to bear her son. At long last her cries stopped and another's tender wails were heard. The queen laid her head back on the pillow, and the birthing bed became a deathbed. 

It was on this day that Eorl the Young was born. 

I. 

Nine years later, the new day dawned like any other. Well, that was perhaps not entirely true, for Aragost of the Dunedain guested with them, but he had done so for a twelve-day and thus was no longer formost in Eorl's mind. So when the messenger from Gondor approached to the sound of echoing horns, he forgot he was to meet and entertain the young Dunedan, and instead went with all speed to Leod's seat in the center of Framsburg. 

He arrived at his father's Hall just at the same time as the rider, and a few moments later, Aragost walked in. "I await your pleasure," he said courteously, his eyes blank and his face expressionless, though no doubt he wondered what was in the missive. 

Leod stared a long moment at the sigil of mourning on the rider's arm, and accepted the letter, spurning Eorl's requests to read it over his shoulder, and much more politely asking Aragost to please return in a candlemark, or two. 

"He is a sovereign," Aragost said with a shrug, as they left. "And you are a sovereign's little boy." 

Eorl looked at the grown man who had played with him so willingly, and felt betrayed. His eyes wide with protest, he began, "Why, what sort of a good-for-nothing - " 

Aragost cut him off, laughing. "I speak not my thoughts, but your father's. Why, I think you are quite learned for your age, and uncommonly tall." 

"Thank - thank you." Eorl frowned, sensing he was being teased. It was a problem he often had with the soldiers of his father's guard, and this Dunedan did not seem altogether too different in that regard. Why did all his elders enjoy it so? 

"Come now, we must amuse ourselves until your father sees fit to share the message," Aragost told Eorl as they walked, leading him out of the city. They headed southeast to where several trees grew tall along the banks of the river Greylin. Though Eorl loved best the plains and meadows that spread out from Anduin's vale, he was not averse to the forest nor the river, and in fact was looking forward to a swim. Aragost disapointed him, however, by halting long before they reached the banks. 

The Dunedan jumped suddenly up, landing on the lowermost branch of a tree and settling himself in the crook between branch and trunk. Eorl remained below, mouth agape. "How'd you do that?" he said, finally. 

Aragost looked down, grinning. "'Tis a trick you learn, when you live with elves." 

"You lived with elves?" Eorl asked. This was something altogether new about their guest. "Truly?" 

"Truly. Since I was about your age." 

"With the elves of the great forest? The Mirkwood?" 

"Nay, not those." 

"What those of the golden wood, then? With the Lady?" 

"Nay, not those, either." 

"Which then?!" Eorl demanded, frustrated that his wide knowledge of the world had come to naught. 

"Those of Imladris, of Rivendell. I was fostered there by Elrond Peredhel." 

This Eorl pondered for a moment, running a hand through his messy blond hair as he tried to recall the name. "Well," he said dismissively, when he could not, "I haven't heard of him. He must be of little account." 

"Of little account!" Aragost repeated, giving himself over to mirth. "And how great has been the extent of your learning, that you trust it so?" 

Eorl considered taking offense, but was much too interested in Aragost's tale to pick a fight. Seeing that there was to be no fisticuffs - though to be honest the good Ranger might have found it amusing if Eorl had tried one - Aragost leaned out of the tree to help Eorl up. Eorl was a ruddy, healthy boy but not half-grown, and was soon clutching at the tree branch. He gained his bearings as Aragost chuckled, and at long last, asked, "So what about the elves? What are they like?" 

"Oh, they are altogether beyond description," replied Aragost, "but I shall try nonetheless. What can I say? They are somber and joyful, powerful yet gracious, with the wisdom of thousands of years and the hearts of children. Aye, the hearts of children, now that is exactly right. Although, many men might misunderstand - I do not mean to say they are undignified, nor are they foolish, nornaive. They are simply innocent, and pure. You understand, dear Eorl, do you not?Ê Being such yourself?" 

Eorl did not quite follow, so he merely asked, "And are they much like me?" 

Aragost looked at Eorl's sturdy form, his torn cloak and calloused fingers from riding, his hair like straw and his rounded ears. Then he looked into his eyes, which were the color of meadows too long beneath the sun, the soft, deep brown of late summer. And there was the sparkle of the Edain in his eyes, the potential of loyalty and wisdom, that Aragost had seen in his own reflection, as well as something else, something old beyond Eorl's years. 

It came out softly. "In a way." 

Eorl might have been wise for his age, but no nine year old can well sense a moment of such import. "Why did you leave?" he said, breaking Aragost's trance. 

Aragost smiled. "To be sure I did not want to, for I love the Western lands. Or rather, my heart did not want to, but my hands and my feet have long desired to roam, and furthermore it is a tradition of sorts among my people, that the chieftan must earn his title. So I wander in the far lands, meeting elves and men and lords and kings. Sometimes I fight - orc and easterlings, mostly, but there were a few wolves along the way." Here his eyes darkened. 

"Is something the matter?" Eorl bluntly asked. 

Aragost looked away for a moment, then turned back and said, "We chieftans live long, as few things may slay us, and 'tis a good thing. For who else guards the West? Yet my grandfather's father, who was called Aragorn, died young when he gave his throat to wolves." 

Eorl shuddered. Then, hesitating, he reached out and grasped Aragost's hand. The other seemed surprised at the gesture of comfort, but accepted it nonetheless. He squeezed Eorl's fingers gently, then pulled his hand away, saying only, "It is not my grief. I never knew him." 

"Why, that is not so!" Eorl exclaimed. "I never knew Beren, nor Luthien, but your tales of them these past few days - why I never cried half so much for my grandfather, who died when I was six." Eorl, caught up in giving Aragost comfort, belatedly realized that he had just admitted - to a wild Ranger, no less! - that he had been weeping over a tale. He blushed. 

He was too young to understand that Aragost thought him all the better for it. 

A servant found them there, long legs and short dangling from the branches. "I am come to call you back to the Hall," he said. 

Aragost slipped off his branch, then turned to help Eorl down. As they walked back, Aragost suggested quietly to him, "It will be best if you remain silent, and speak only if you truly must. Then, at least, your father will see there is no harm in letting you attend." 

Eorl nodded. Aragost was always giving him pieces of advice, in the same respectful manner, and where Eorl would have spurned another man's criticsms, Eorl gratefully accepted his. When they reached Leod's seat, Eorl stood back and watched, his lips pressed closed to keep from speaking. 

"I have had grave news, Dunedan," began Leod. "A message from Gondor.Ê From Cirion, who is now Steward in name, as well as fact." 

"Then Boromir is dead?" Aragost asked. "That is some small mercy. Ten years is too long to warm a deathbed." 

Leod smiled grimly. "By the date of this missive, and the story of its messenger, Boromir has been dead for over a year. These lands are difficult to reach, from the South. Twice Cirion's messengers were repulsed by the fell creatures who inhabit our old home. Only Borondir made it through, and that because he is akin to us, and knows the lands of his people." 

"I came from the West, and still the route was rough," Aragost's voice was neutral. "I can readily believe the messenger's tale." 

"Yes, yes, it is all too believable. Why should Cirion purposefully delay the news? He spends but a handful of words lamenting his father's death, and wastes the rest of them begging me to move my people." 

"You will not, then?" Aragost did not look surprised. 

Leod shook his head. "Why should I?" 

"The messenger's troubles are but a sign. If the lands between here and Gondor have grown so hostile that the Steward must try thrice to get a man through, then they are no safe border. Indeed, they stand between you and the Cirion's kingdom, and if they choose to attack, of what aide can you be?" 

"I have been South with my troops," Leod said, frowning. "It is not so bad as you and Cirion would make it seem. Messengers are known for speed, not strength - they are easily repulsed. These creatures are not so dangerous to a group of armed men." 

Aragost seemed to draw himself up into his full height. "Believe me when I say that they are far more dangerous than that." 

Leod grunted. "They are from the West. Not even out of Mirkwood, or Mordor." 

"They are the folk of the Witch-king, the descendants of those who destroyed the land of Arnor," Aragost said passionately. Some nerve, deep within him, had been struck. "Doubt you the word of a Dunedan? The men of my line have fought the beasts of Angmar since Argeleb the first, who died at Amon Sul. It took the elves of Lindon and Rivendell allied with the last King of Gondor to drive them out. Do not tell me that they are harmless. Cirion is right to fear." 

Leod seemed angry at being taken to task by a guest. "That was many years ago, and a people without a kingdom will always decay." 

For some reason unknown to Eorl, this made Aragost flush deeply, and when he spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. "If the orcs and wildlings of Angmar remain half so fierce as the Dunedain do, I weep for your fate." 

"Do not waste your tears on us," Leod said, shifting in his seat. "We do not need them, your sorrows nor your advice." 

Aragost bowed once, stiffly. "Then I will not tarry here long, but bring word to Cirion that you laugh at the threats that leave even the elves worried." 

He turned on his heel and left. 

Eorl watched his retreating form, gaping. He had not understood the words passed back and forth between his father and the Dunedan, only the anger that increased with each word. Leod beckoned to his son. Eorl stared at his father for a moment. Then, ignoring his stern cry, "Eorl!", he ran out. 

He found Aragost already packing his things. The Ranger travelled lightly, with little but food and sword and change of clothes. Aragost tied his bag shut, and Eorl noted that although it was dirty it seemed strong, with an intricately woven pattern. A gift of the elves? Oh, Eorl had so many things to ask this man, still! 

"Must you go so soon?" he asked, disappointed. 

"Aye," said Aragost. He shrugged a tattered, dirt-brown cloak over his finer clothes, hiding the sparkle and richness from view. "I wish that my only concern was keeping your company, my young friend, but I have a duty to my people. They must know of Cirion's peril, and your father's refusal to aid him." 

"I wish - " Eorl faltered. "I wish I made the choices, and not father. Then I would help this Cirion. He is mourning still, and yet he has to rule a kingdom?" 

Aragost smiled grimly. "Such is the way of things. It will be a long time before you rule your people, Eorl, but I hope you retain the compassion you have shown me this twelveday." He turned as his horse was led up beside him, stroked his mane and then his flank. "Ready to ride, _rocco_?" The horse neighed, tossing his head. 

"This is goodbye, then, Eorl," said Aragost. He knelt down in front of the boy, who sniffed manfully. "I do not know if we shall ever meet again, but if Iluvatar wills it, I will do so gladly. As the elves say, _Namarië_." 

He pulled Eorl into a hug, then quickly released him and mounted his horse in one smooth motion. And then he was off, down the path that led quickest into the forest, the hooves of his horse pounding on the oft-trod soil. People cleared out of his way hastily, then returned to their work without comment. Eorl found the departure harder to take. 

A hand slipped onto his shoulder. Eorl looked up and saw his father. 

"I know you are angry with me, my son. Aragost was a fine man, of good blood, if bad manners. I should not have spoken so to him," Leod admitted. "Still, there is nothing I can do. How could I? He is a king without a country, and I rule a country yet am not king. We protect our people in different ways. Do you understand that, Eorl? You are not a Dunedain Chieftan - you cannot ride off and leave your people, you cannot wander far away from home." 

"You will be leader of the _Lohtur_, Eorl. You are not the son of an old line, like Aragost, but the father of a new." 

* 

_rocco_ - swift horse, in High Elvish   
_namarië_ - goodbye, in High Elvish  
_Lohtur_ - horse-people, Eotheod, in Rohirric   


Ê Ê Ê 


End file.
